


The Safer Course

by seapigeon



Series: Won't You Be My Neighbor [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Commander Rogers, Crack Treated Seriously, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-Endgame, Shrunkyclunks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:08:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24845824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seapigeon/pseuds/seapigeon
Summary: When Steve moves to the suburbs in 2033, he intends to retire from superhero life.He does not intend to fall in love with his pain-in-the-ass neighbor.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Won't You Be My Neighbor [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1901473
Comments: 85
Kudos: 679





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic, like so many, was born in a group chat when [ Ignisentis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ignisentis) shared a picture of her arbor vitae, which had been nibbled into a rather unfortunate shape by deer. This naturally devolved into Stucky discussion, and this story was hatched. Huge thanks to [Deisderium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deisderium/pseuds/Deisderium), [ AidaRonan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AidaRonan), and [Rosesnfeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosesnfeathers/works) for cheerleading, and Ignisentis for the moodboard featuring her very own tree of infamy!
> 
> A note or two about timeline/setting: this is Shrunkyclunks, so no Bucky in Steve's past. Everything has happened mostly in line with canon beyond that, up through Endgame. Obviously Steve does not stay in the 40s with Peggy. He comes back, passes the shield to Sam, and then spends the next 10 years helping the Returned and the new Avengers.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

He never thought he’d end up in suburbia.

Steve Rogers was a city boy, forever and always. He didn’t picture himself leaving. However, he also didn’t picture half the world being snapped into dust, leaving cities all over the world as overgrown shells of themselves. It was never the same after that. He couldn’t stop seeing the empty streets, the six-foot-tall weeds reclaiming the concrete, cars that would never again transport people and windows that would never know light. 

Even now, his chest tightens with guilt. It’s been years, and they got everybody back, but…

The ghost of New York still lives in his mind. His worst nightmare come true. Sometimes he’s almost envious of the people who were just _somewhere else_ for five years. That’s what most of them say, when asked what it was like; they existed, and then all of a sudden, nothing. But a peaceful sort of nothing. 

Steve knows he accomplished a lot in those years. He learned. He grew. He got a college degree and became a licensed therapist, because being a super soldier didn’t and _couldn’t_ help the people left behind. Then he did it all over again when everyone came back. 

He’s not sure which was worse, in the end. It should’ve been the loss, but seeing the way people were treated after they came back brought everything he’d repressed about his own resurrection back to the surface. He hadn’t realized how angry he was.

That’s all water under the bridge now. Ten years later things are settling. Much later than he should have, he told Sam he needed a break. This feels like a bit more than that, though, if he’s honest.

Steve surveys his lawn. He’s never had a lawn. He takes a sip of coffee on his _porch_. The morning air is cool. There’s not a hint of the smell of garbage.

Weird.

  
  
  


There is a very good looking man on the porch next door. Bucky is glad someone finally moved in, and even gladder that he appears to be a single, attractive guy. He’ll probably just renovate and flip the place, but Bucky won’t complain, especially if he does some of the work himself. Shirtless.

In all seriousness, though, he’s glad the house sold. Mrs. Inglewood was a lovely woman, but her time capsule of a house definitely dragged down property values in the area. Not that Bucky is planning on going anywhere, but when he does, he wants to be able to sell well. Finally, fifteen years later, people want to buy houses again.

They wanted them ten years ago, too, but the Returned didn’t come back with money. Or identification. Or credit. There were so many empty houses, and for nearly two years after what should have been considered the greatest miracle ever to occur on Earth, people who needed shelter weren’t allowed to live in them. 

Bucky was lucky. His sister was there for him every step of the way, and now it’s almost like he wasn’t dead for five years. It’s just one big ‘explain this gap on your resume’ joke.

The guy next door is staring at nothing, coffee cup halfway to his mouth. Bucky frowns. _That_ is the definition of a thousand-yard stare. Hmm.

He steps away from the window to let the guy have his moment. Tomorrow he’ll go over and introduce himself.

  
  


A little after ten, there’s a knock on his door. Steve frowns.

He doesn’t know anybody here, and that was by design. The last thing he wants is to be recognized. If it’s happened already…

He gathers his patience and opens the door. There’s a man standing there. He has long brown hair and a kind, open face. That takes Steve’s anxiety down a notch.

“Hi,” he says. “I’m Bucky. I live next door.” He points to his left, Steve’s right. “I just wanted to introduce myself and let you know that you can always knock on my door or give me a call if you need anything.”

“Oh,” Steve manages. Yes. This is something people do in suburbia. “Nice to meet you, Bucky. I’m Steve.”

“Really happy to have you. This is such a great little house. The lady who lived here before took really good care of it. I can’t wait to see what you do with the place!”

Steve blinks. He’s a little slow because he didn’t sleep last night - too quiet. “What do you mean?”

“Renovations!” Bucky grins.

“It doesn’t need any renovations. It’s perfect.”

It’s his neighbor’s turn to blink. “This place hasn’t seen a hammer since 1940.”

“Yeah, and like you said, the previous owner took really good care of it. It doesn’t need a thing.”

  
  


Oh, God. He’s _serious._

Bucky stares at him, flummoxed. The guy - Steve - is even better looking up close. He has an incredible body, just the right amount of gray starting to creep into his hair and beard, and gorgeous blue eyes. But those eyes have seen some things, Bucky can tell. And they are apparently blind to the fact that this house would be so much better if it was brought into the present.

“But…” Bucky can’t help himself. It physically pains him to think about this. Steve looks like the kind of man that should live in a casually masculine loft in the city. Not in the land of linoleum.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Steve says, in a tone that’s not sorry at all. He looks annoyed now. “Thanks for stopping by.”

“I--” Bucky starts, realizing he’s kind of being a jerk. But Steve has already closed the door in his face.

Well, this is off to an auspicious start.

  
  


He should not have taken that personally. Steve knows that. It’s irrational, and Bucky probably didn’t mean anything by it. But Steve _likes_ this house. He likes its bones, its age, the smell of being lived in. He’s never been able to stomach things that are so new that they seem sterile.

He has plans for this place. In all those years he read a lot about the art he’d missed. By the time he’s done with it, it’s not going to look like a grandmother’s home. But the base - the canvas - is already perfect. 

He should apologize to Bucky tomorrow.

  
  


He does not apologize. Because someone stuffs a bunch of interior decorating magazines and catalogs into his mailbox later that day and it is very obvious who that someone was. Steve doesn’t even bring them into the house. He thinks about putting them directly in the trash, but decides against it since they aren’t actually his to throw out. He leaves them on Bucky’s porch. 

That’s when he notices that Bucky’s yard is a goddamn disaster.

  
  


“Are you ever going to mow your lawn?” he calls out to Bucky a week later. It’s gotta be up to his shins now, full of weeds and crab grass.

“No,” Bucky returns. “I don’t believe in that manicured lawn bullshit. We should let the land do what it wants to do.”

Honestly, Steve doesn’t care that much, except the weeds - the _goldenrod_ , fuck - make him flash back to the empty city. He came here to try to get away from that. If it makes him a little obsessive about his own lawn, so be it. But this...he can’t look at this for half the year.

“I’ll mow it for you,” he offers, a little desperate.

“No,” Bucky repeats, a little colder. “Don’t even think about it. If I’m missing one single dandelion, I will be very upset.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” Steve says through gritted teeth.

He immediately looks up what can be done. And the answer is nothing; there’s no HOA, no specific codes to enforce, and it’s Bucky’s land. There’s a whole movement, actually, to move away from bland grass lawns maintained through pesticides and fertilizer. Letting things grow wild is better for pollinators, apparently.

Listen, Steve is all for bees. There were major food shortages after the Snap because pollinators were already declining in number, and populations were decimated by being halved. He can tolerate this for that reason. He’s just...going to have to pretend his right visual field does not exist every time he goes outside.

  
  


Two weeks later, however, that is simply not possible. He goes outside and there is a _monstrosity_ on the side of Bucky’s house.

His neighbor has trimmed his shrub into a phallus. There’s a giant green dick staring Steve in the face. A monolith.

It _has_ to be intentional. A dig at Steve, or the start of attempts to get him to move out so someone more suited to Bucky’s neighborhood vision can move in. Well, two can play at that game. 

  
  
  


Lately, Steve won’t even look in his direction, so Bucky is surprised when he knocks on his door. He does get a little distracted by the cardigan - _cardigan!_ \- stretched tight and straining over his pecs and biceps.

“Are you listening?” Steve says, sharp. Then, too perceptive: “My eyes are up here.”

Something about his tone kicks Bucky’s innate sass up to an eleven. “Oh, you finally decided I’m worth your notice again?”

“Yeah, I noticed your giant topiary dick!”

That is so far outside the realm of anything Bucky expects him to say. He almost chokes on his own saliva. “ _What_?”

But Steve is looking toward the side of Bucky’s house, color high in his cheeks, fuming. He points. Bucky steps out onto the porch and looks, and then he’s choking on a laugh instead.

The goddamn deer. They chew on his shrubs every year, but this is the first time the shrubs have been tall enough that they can’t reach the top. So they nibbled as far as they could, trimming the evergreen into a neat pillar with a perfect mushroom tip. It really does look like an erect penis.

He turns back to Steve, arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t know what you mean,” he says archly. It takes everything he has not to let his lips twitch into a smile.

“Of course you don’t.”

“I think you should worry about your own property. Is that clover I see? Plantains? Your grass might be ¼ inch longer than regulation!”

Steve rolls his eyes and storms off.

  
  
  


It’s childish. Bucky knows it even as he’s doing it. But the dick tree got Steve to give him the time of day again. Logic follows that the more dick trees he makes, the more attention he’ll get from Steve. The more he’ll get to see him all riled up. It’s satisfying on some level he can’t explain. Plus, why shouldn’t he have penis topiary? It’s his house. It should be as gay as he wants it to be. And if Steve’s gonna be dragging down the property values with his ode to salmon tile and floral couches, Bucky might as well enjoy himself.

  
  
  


He never catches Bucky at it. He’s good. But there’s always something new popping up in his yard, and they’re getting more and more ridiculous. Today’s lovingly sculpted azalea even has balls, and flowers scattered delicately across said balls. Steve sighs. Purely from an artistic standpoint, he likes it, and that galls him.

When he does notice Bucky in the yard, he’s tending his garden. It’s huge and riotously green. And each and every day, Bucky’s shorts get shorter. His shirts more transparent. The vees deeper. Today he’s actually wearing cutoff overalls with no shirt underneath. When he bends down, Steve can see the curve of his butt cheek peeking out of a horizontal rip in the denim.

He hopes a dozen mosquitoes bite him _right there_.

  
  


Thing is, he can tell that Bucky is attracted to him. It’s a certain look people get, a blankness, a dilation of the pupils. Bucky is raising his hemlines because he thinks it bothers Steve. It does not. Not at all. But Steve is pretty certain that if he shows a little skin, Bucky might spontaneously combust.

He knows what time Bucky leaves for work. It’s too easy. 

  
  
  


He is annoyed because he accidentally put too much cream in his coffee, and he doesn’t actually like a milkshake for breakfast, thank you very much, but there isn’t time to remake it. Bucky sighs as he trudges to his car. He can hear footfalls - someone jogging - and he glances up and ---

Oh dear sweet Lord in heaven. His brain grinds to a halt.

It’s Steve. Jogging. Wearing the tiniest shorts in existence.

He is the single most attractive man Bucky has ever seen. Somehow the glow of sweat amplifies that. His muscles are all hard fluid curves, thighs rippling, pecs bouncing. Bucky is actually salivating.

“Morning, Bucky,” Steve says, bounding majestically past to curve up his own driveway. His _ass._ Mercy.

Bucky is so flustered that he leaves his coffee on the roof of the car, and it smashes to the ground as he peels away. He misses his exit twice.

God _damn it_.

  
  


Steve tortures him in this fashion for an entire week.

Disgruntled, Bucky calls out, “Don’t you own _shirts?_ ”

“They chafe my nipples,” Steve returns, entirely too pleased with himself. “They’re sensitive.”

So help him, Bucky wants to lick this man. He’s just not sure if he wants to do it before or after he murders him.

He settles for shipping Steve five boxes of NipStrips and an envelope full of glitter. God is good, because the windows are open a few nights later and he hears Steve shout,

“Son of a bitch!”

Bullseye.

  
  


He should be suspicious when Steve knocks on his door a week later. The week had gone by in a relative truce; he thinks Steve was away for part of it. He’s back now, though.

_Maybe he needs a cup of sugar_ , Bucky thinks to himself, and snorts.

Steve is wearing another one of his cardigans, but thankfully it isn’t suffocating his sensitive nipples. He’s holding two tupperwares.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

Bucky gestures him in. This will be good for him. Steve needs exposure to design from the last two decades.

“Nice place.”

“Thanks.”

Steve sets the tupperware down on the kitchen island. “Look, Bucky, we didn’t get off to the best start. So I made dinner, thinking we could hit the reset button?”

That’s...actually really sweet. “You didn’t have to,” Bucky says.

“It’s no big deal. It’s just me over there, and I’m sure you know how annoying it is to cook for one.”

Does he ever.

“Well, I already ate, but I could have a bite or two. Let me get some plates.”

  
  
  


The look on Bucky’s face is priceless.

“What. The fuck. Is _that_?”

“The most repulsive thing I could find in a 40s cookbook,” Steve sighs, delighted. It’s some abomination of gelatin and mayonnaise. He’d eat it if he was hungry enough, but he’d have to be pretty damned hungry. “I made dessert, too.” He pulls the lid off the green Jello mold. “The glitter is edible.”

  
  
  


It’s fucking absurd. There’s nothing Bucky can do but laugh. Steve laughs, too, and it becomes that sort of gut-clutching fit of giggles that has them both wiping their eyes.

“Jesus,” Bucky gasps. “Did you make me headcheese?”

“Don’t defame headcheese like that.”

“You’re coming in here with this shit and you have the audacity to complain about my shrubbery?”

“Oh, so you admit you’ve been--”

“I admit nothing!” He jabs his spoon into the green jello. That, at least, will taste good. Unlike the quivering mass of gel and meat next to it. “I can’t even look at that.”

Steve shrugs. “I’ve eaten worse.” He digs into the green sparkly Jello, too. 

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Bugs. Leaves. Spoiled rations.” He says it casually, like it’s nothing. Like those aren’t things that starving men eat. Suddenly Bucky remembers that thousand-yard stare from the first day Steve moved in. He sets his spoon down. Steve eats a few more bites and then smiles at Bucky.

“Thanks for the NipStrips, by the way. They actually work really well.”

“Oh. Glad to be of service.”

“Do you run?”

“Only away from the cops.”

Steve smiles again. He has a nice smile; his eyes crinkle at the corners. “You want this?” he asks, gesturing with the spoon at the green Jello.

Yeah, he kinda does. He thought it was lime at first, but it’s actually melon flavored, and it’ll make a good after dinner snack as the weather gets hotter. Bucky nods.

“I’ll take this one.”

“Take it straight to the garbage,” Bucky huffs.

“Night, Buck,” Steve chuckles, and shows himself out.

  
  


Something tells him to go to the window after Steve leaves. It doesn’t take long for him to realize why. Steve’s standing at his trash can, hell-food in hand, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He can’t throw it out.

A weird thing happens in Bucky’s chest.

“Aw, fuck,” he mutters to himself.

  
  


He doesn’t know why he thought he could just casually tip this jiggly disgrace into the trash. The mere thought of wasting food gave him hives long before the post-Snap famine, and it’s even worse now. He can’t just throw away perfectly good food. No matter how gag-inducing it is.

Steve sighs and brings it back inside.

  
  


It’s not the worst thing he’s ever eaten. Bucky wasn’t too far off when he called it headcheese. It’s the mayonnaise that ruins it.

Nevertheless, Steve chokes it down. It takes four days, but it doesn’t go to waste. In those four days Bucky doesn’t bless him with any more sculptures. His yard full of weeds is flowering, though. Steve tries not to hate it.

After the third round of nightmares, he’s not sure how much success he’s having. He scrapes exhaustion from his eyes and goes over to Bucky’s. He doesn’t even get a word out before Bucky demands,

“What is _that?_ ”

A common refrain, it seems. He follows Bucky’s glance.

“Uh, my car?” 

“Are you serious?”

He’s tired and less tolerant than usual. “Yeah. What’s wrong with my choice this time?”

“It’s a gas-guzzling death machine! Why are you so determined to live in the past like it was _great_ or something?”

He knows his fuse is short right now, but when it comes to this he can’t snuff it out. Tony gave him that car, a 1957 Thunderbird, as a joke, of course. Tony, who he dragged back into the fight, away from the perfectly good life he’d made. He’s been told time and time again that Tony made a choice on the battlefield, one he knew would probably kill him, and there was nothing Steve or anyone could have changed. That hasn’t done much to soothe the combination of guilt and grief Steve feels every time he thinks of him.

“It’s electric,” Steve says, very softly. It has hover technology, too - and it works, unlike Howard’s. “And it was given to me by a dear friend who isn’t here anymore. But by all means, I’ll get rid of it so I don’t offend your sensibilities.”

Bucky knows he’s stepped in it. He can see the chagrin, the apology welling up in him, but Steve isn’t feeling particularly charitable.

“Steve, I--”

“Save it.” He turns away, but now he’s angry, and he whips back. “You know, all I wanted to do was ask if I could put a fence up so I wouldn’t have to look at your weeds. That’s it. But I think I’m just going to put up a For Sale sign instead. Then maybe you’ll get the neighbor you want.”

  
  


Bucky feels like there’s a brick in his stomach for the rest of the day. There’s no way he could have known how meaningful that baby blue car was to Steve, but what did it even matter? As obnoxious as Steve’s dinner offering was the other day, the gesture was genuine, and Bucky had gone right on being rude to him in return.

He doesn’t want Steve to move. He feels sick and a little panicky when he thinks about it, which - what the hell? They barely know each other. Must be guilt. Regardless, it’s not really up to him, is it?

The only thing he can do is stick a few fencing brochures in Steve’s mailbox with a note that says: _I’m sorry. I’ll pay half._

  
  
  


Bucky stalks the real estate apps. No listing goes up, and neither does a sign. There are no sightings of Steve, though; not out running, not on the porch, and he doesn’t reach out about the fence. The only sign of life next door is the lights at nighttime, and the back sunroom doors sitting open sometimes.

He can see that Steve has started a garden of his own. He has a small greenhouse and a few raised beds. It’s not the ramshackle orgy of greenery that Bucky’s curated in his backyard, but it is well-designed and tended. He’ll have more than enough herbs and vegetables for one.

The evasion and radio silence goes on just long enough that Bucky thinks this might be it - the way they’re going to do things until one of them moves out. It’s acceptable, he supposes, but he still feels bad. This one’s on him.

The next morning he wakes up, and the big boxwood on the side of Steve’s house has, unmistakably, been shaped into a butt. A nice one, at that. His breath leaves him in a punched-out laugh, and he feels... _elated_. He’s relieved but also puzzled; all of his emotions feel out of proportion when it comes to Steve. He shouldn’t be so happy that his neighbor is not-so-subtly telling him he’s an ass.

He manages to wait all of thirty minutes before he goes over. The sunroom doors are open, so he goes around the back. He used to have dinner with Mrs. Inglewood once or twice a week so he knows the layout of the house, and he’s surprised to see that it’s not really a sunroom anymore. Steve has converted it into an art studio.

He knocks on the french doors, but Steve seems to already know he’s there.

“Got my message?” he says, not looking away from his drawing.

“Loud and clear.”

“Good. Want some coffee?”

  
  


Bucky is unusually subdued. He takes the coffee and sips it in silence, absorbing the room. Steve expected him to talk or poke around or just...be his animated self, but he seems tentative. That’s Steve’s fault. He doesn’t want Bucky to think he has to walk on eggshells to keep the peace. Truth be told, he finds Bucky’s willingness to relentlessly give him shit to be pretty refreshing.

“I’m sorry,” Steve tosses out. “About the way I reacted to the car thing. It’s...a sensitive subject. And I know you didn’t know.”

“Are you kidding?” Bucky asks, incredulous. “It doesn’t matter what I knew. I was being a jerk.”

“We were both jerks.”

That’s the truth. Steve is good at helping others with introspection but sometimes he forgets he also has to perceive himself. He’s not over losing Nat and Tony; probably never will be. But that isn’t an excuse to take his unsavory emotions out on someone else. He chose to react that way in the moment, knowing full well that Bucky didn’t mean anything by it, and it was wrong.

“I’m sorry, too.” Bucky has relaxed already, shoulders coming down and eyes starting to roam in the studio. “Hey, can I look around?”

Steve nods, smiling into his mug. He knew Bucky wouldn’t be able to resist.

  
  


Well, fuck. He has to swallow his pride and say it.

“It looks really good, Steve.”

“Mm hmm,” Steve hums, a bit unbearable in his smugness. He deserves to be, though. Bucky had pictured a continued nightmare of doilies and ruffled curtains, but it’s good. The color palette, the furniture, the finishes - it’s all great, and Steve didn’t rip out a single thing. He just reworked what was already here. He did add a dishwasher, though.

“I hate washing dishes,” he shrugs. He then proceeds to talk about art deco and mid century modern design aesthetics for a solid forty minutes, and Bucky...isn’t bored. He can almost pretend that he doesn’t see the pictures of _very famous people_ scattered among Steve’s possessions. Or the one where Steve is begrudgingly sandwiched in the middle of a group with a party hat on his head next to a cake with ‘100’ written in blue icing.

Bucky isn’t stupid. It didn’t take long for Steve’s mail to accidentally end up in his box; he knows he lives next door to Steven G. Rogers. And that he is, by all appearances, _that_ Steven G. Rogers. It’s just a little different to be confronted with the fact that this figurehead that looms so large in the collective mind is also just a man.

“Do you still want to put in a fence?” Bucky asks, feeling a little lightheaded. 

“I don’t know. I don’t…” he shakes his head. “Guess I lived most of my life sharing walls. This is the most privacy I’ve ever had.” He pauses to wash the charcoal off his hands. “Feels like too much, sometimes.”

Bucky’s chest does that weird thing again. Because, if he’s not mistaken, that was a very roundabout way for Steve to say that he’s lonely out here in the burbs.

“Steve,” he says softly. “It’s just a fence. I can promise you, it won’t keep me out.”

He gets a little smile out of Steve. “I’ll think about it.”

  
  
  


He doesn’t pursue the fence thing. His own therapist has hammered in that putting up walls to keep from getting hurt (or from thinking about the ways he’s already been hurt) doesn’t help him heal. Boundaries are one thing. A literal physical wall is another. He’s past due to bring up this iteration of trauma at his weekly appointment. 

“Steve,” Sam says on the phone. Steve’s been yammering on about how it’s been a tough adjustment to the suburbs. It’s rare that he can get ahold of Sam for more than five minutes these days. He knows how busy that life is. Sometimes he feels a little guilty, but Sam - he’s doing better than Steve ever did. “You don’t have to stay there. You’re allowed to fail at something.”

Steve makes an entirely involuntary noise like he’s been stabbed. In a way, he has; Sam knows that the whole ordeal with Thanos gave Steve a crippling fear of failure - of letting people down. It’s made his transition away from the superhero life difficult. It’s why, ten years after giving up the shield, he’s only now walking away.

“This isn’t a mission,” Sam goes on, a little more gently. “Nothing’s riding on it.”

“I think my ability to actually retire any way other than in a coffin is riding on it,” Steve replies.

“Did you just say the R word?”

Steve winces. A fresh wave of guilt and anxiety washes over him. “...Yes.”

“Wow. So this is more than taking a break.”

“You remember when we first met? And you asked me what made me happy? I still don’t fucking know, but I will never find out if I don’t let myself _leave_.”

“You might consider letting yourself have fun, too,” Sam adds drily. “Nobody’s watching. Nobody’s gonna jump out and say _Steve Rogers isn’t doing enough!_ ”

“Get out of my brain,” he grumbles.

“Ah, man,” Sam sighs. “This is where Nat would’ve said something about us only sharing three braincells.”

“And two of ‘em are on vacation,” Steve finishes. “I miss her so much.”

“Me too.” Sam exhales. “Okay, Rogers. Buck up. You will not be defeated by the suburbs.”

“I will not,” he agrees, feeling lighter.

“I will personally whoop your ass if you come back here.”

“You’ll try.”

“I won’t have to because you’re done. You’re out. I’m gonna stamp a big old RETIRED on your file.”

“What, they have you doing HR now, too?”

Sam snorts. “If they could, Steve, they would, and you know it.”

“Good night, Cap.”

“Good night, retired man.”

Steve makes another noise of malcontent, and Sam is laughing when he hangs up the phone.

  
  


Steve is on his porch doing some staring when Bucky walks out to his car. Bucky clicks the unlock button, but hesitates before opening the door. Why not?

“Hey,” he calls out. “I’m going to get some ice cream. Want to join?”

  
  


_Let yourself have some fun_ , Sam said. And what else?

Oh yeah.

_Buck up_.

It’s kind of funny that he used that turn of phrase.

Steve stands up. “Only if we take my gas-guzzling death machine.”

  
  


And it’s...nice. Really nice. Bucky is a little sulky at first, but he can’t help but smile with the wind in his hair. When they’re on a nice quiet stretch of back road, Steve fires up the hover tech and laughs harder than he has in a long time when Bucky yelps and death grips the dashboard.

“Asshole!” Bucky says, but he’s grinning, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling. “You could have warned me!”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“This is what I get for being nice. I ask my weird neighbor to get ice cream and he almost launches me a hundred feet in the air to my death.”

“I made sure you were wearing your seatbelt,” Steve shrugs.

“Unbelievable.”

“Bet you’re wishing for a Jello mold now.”

Bucky can’t maintain his charade of irritation. He cracks up, fingers on the bridge of his nose like he doesn’t even know what to do with Steve. They settle down for the rest of the drive. After a while, Bucky says,

“Iron Man gave you this car?”

Steve swallows. “Tony, yeah.”

“I’m sorry I said mean things about it.”

“Oh, you should’ve heard the things I said to Tony when he gave it to me,” he muses. “He thought he was funny. Here you go, Steve, an old car for an old man. He wanted to get me one for each decade I missed.” He’s getting a little misty-eyed. Thank God they’re almost there. He blinks the tears back. “You can’t even imagine what it was like to try to parallel park this boat in Brooklyn.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He just reaches out to squeeze Steve’s shoulder, and then, once they get there, he makes fun of Steve for ordering butter pecan.

  
  
  


It doesn’t take long for Bucky to realize he’s on thin ice. 

That weird thing in his chest - it’s Feelings. Capital F Feelings. He’s starting to fall for Steve.

They have dinner together twice a week, usually Wednesday and Sunday. A break from cooking for one, he said, when he suggested it. They alternate. Steve’s a decent cook, and he’s great company. Bucky has had some of the most interesting conversations of his life at that chrome and formica dining table.

Steve is hard to read, though. It’s no secret that Bucky is attracted to him, but he still has no idea if Steve is interested in men, let alone specifically interested in Bucky Barnes. He’s put his foot in his mouth enough times already when it comes to Steve. He cannot risk it with something this big. He has to just...wait for a sign. And suffer all the while.

There are worse ways to suffer. He’ll be happy just having Steve as a friend. That’s what he tells himself as he gets ready to go over for dinner.

  
  
  


Steve looks tired when he opens the door. And he’s wearing glasses. It is...a good look.

“Getting cataracts?” he ribs, unable to help himself. He really hopes Steve understands that this is his love language.

“Oh. Forgot I was wearing these. Nah, it’s a VR platform that I use for my clients who don’t live close enough to see in person, or who can’t get to my office for whatever reason.” He takes them off, which is not what Bucky wanted him to do, but that’s what he gets for being obnoxious. “It’s been a long week.” 

His first week taking counseling appointments in ten years, if Bucky remembers correctly. He had been working extremely hard the last two months to catch up on continuing education and get his licensure renewed.

“And it’s only Wednesday,” he commiserates. He follows Steve into the kitchen, where an array of takeout containers await.

“I have to confess I phoned it in tonight, Buck. I’m sorry.”

He waves it off. “There’s no rule that says we have to _cook_ for these dinners.”

“I know, but I like cooking for you.”

Bucky’s head snaps up. Steve isn’t looking at him. He’s already halfway down the hall with most of the boxes.

“Where are you going?”

“Studio,” he calls over his shoulder. 

Bucky follows him. They’ve never eaten in there before, but he’s game.

Steve says very little else for the duration of the meal. The silence isn’t awkward, though. Bucky can imagine that he’s probably drained from flexing his therapy brain for the first time in a while.

The sun is down and the studio dark by the time he speaks again. The only light spills in from the hallway.

“Can I draw you, Bucky?”

Bucky blinks. Of all the times - he ate too much and is certain he looks like a beached whale.

“Uh. I guess?”

  
  


He’s been wanting to draw him for a while.

He’s been...wanting.

It’s not something Steve has really let himself do. There had always been so much work, and more recently, the fear of loss. The safer course was always to be alone.

Still is, probably. 

Bucky sits up and wipes his hands on his shorts. “What...what do I do?”

“Just get comfortable.”

“Like...how?”

“However you want.”

He pulls a face. “You are not helpful.” Bucky shifts a few times, finally settling into a half-reclined position in the corner of the couch with the big throw pillows. “Don’t you need more light?”

Not really, no. He likes the inexact nature of the dark. It turns Bucky’s bone structure into sharp, beautiful planes, and blends his lines into a sfumato caress. He doesn’t say that, of course. He just says, “I have good night vision.” 

As Steve starts, Bucky still looks stiff. He wouldn’t have thought this would make him so nervous. But Bucky’s been a little on edge lately, he’s noticed. Steve hasn’t cared to examine that too closely, but now...he’s asking Bucky to be vulnerable without anything in return. It’s time to tug on the thread and let a little bit of his security blanket unravel.

“Do you have a favorite daydream?” Steve asks. That’s what the instructor told him to think about the first time he posed nude for an art class. He says as much, and Bucky’s eyebrows raise.

“You posed nude? What was that like?”

“Cold, mostly.”

Bucky considers it. “Do you think any of those drawings survived?”

“I doubt it. It was the upperclassmen drawing me. They didn’t even know my name.”

Bucky is silent for a few minutes. He’s relaxed now, though, unintentionally elegant in the cushions. Steve’s head is clearing just from sketching out the rough shape of him. It’s a bit of serotonin that he sorely needed.

“Thinking about your daydream?” he prods, finally admitting to himself that he’s looking at his own. 

Bucky shifts forward on the pillows and looks right at Steve.

“Yeah,” he says. “I am.”

  
  
  


That’s how Steve draws him, eyes piercing through the page, daring him.

He never was much good at resisting a dare. Especially when it was something he wanted to do, anyway.

He sets the sketchbook down and leaps.

  
  
  


He wakes up on the couch in Steve’s studio. Steve is wedged against the back of it so Bucky has most of the room. He’s furnace-warm.

The drawing had taken a while, and Bucky got drowsy. He woke right up, though, when Steve came over without a word and knelt down by the couch. After a long moment of eye contact in which Bucky hardly dared to breathe, Steve leaned close to kiss him. It was a gentle, tender thing, achingly sweet for a man so strong. The kind of kiss you close your eyes for. 

Then he sat back on his heels, looking startled at his own actions, and like he was bracing for rejection. There was not a chance in hell of that happening. Bucky slid off the couch and kissed him right back with all the pent-up desire he’d been nursing for months now.

He knew it wouldn’t go past that. Not last night. Even when the kisses got deeper, hungrier - and they did with due haste - there was something hesitant in Steve. When Bucky got swept up in the heat of it and climbed into his lap, Steve tensed and turned his head. It took a moment to get Steve to look at him again, but when he did, he saw fear.

He can’t rush this. They’ll never make it to the daydream if he pushes. 

Bucky decides right then and there that he’s in it for the long haul. It could turn out to be an exercise in frustration, and all the patience in the world doesn’t guarantee it will work, but that’s okay. He can handle it. Some things - some _people_ \- are worth waiting for.

He burrows into Steve’s warmth and goes back to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s his birthday. It’s also his and Steve’s seven month anniversary.

Bucky smiles to himself and stretches out in the bed. He’s alone. Steve had insisted on going back to his place last night so Bucky could get a good night’s sleep. Steve does have nightmares sometimes that wake them both, but Bucky has always been the type that can fall right back to sleep. That doesn’t stop Steve from feeling guilty about it.

Beyond that, though, Steve had looked him right in the eye and said, “Well, you’re not going to get any sleep tomorrow night, so you better rest up.”

Like a guy could get to sleep after  _ that. _

He had, though, and it’s always a luxury to sleep until exactly when his body wants to wake up, instead of when his alarm goes off. This whole week has been full of Steve spoiling him. Dinner, breakfast in bed, flowers, one of his favorite movies at the drive in theater, long rides and canoodling in GG (short for Gas Guzzling Death Machine), the gardening boots he’d had his eye on, a new vibrating toy. Yesterday morning Steve woke him up with a blowjob so excruciatingly good that he couldn’t concentrate until noon.

Steve has been  _ perfect _ this week.

Thing is, it hasn’t always been. Early on, Steve was like a tide, advancing and retreating, wanting things he was too afraid to have. He’d be great for a while and then drift away. The Doctor Doom incursion around Thanksgiving hadn’t helped. He understood very quickly that Steve felt a deep and unrelenting responsibility to  _ protect.  _ It overruled everything; even his sincere desire to do something else with his life and enjoy that. In a ranking of important things, Steve’s own wants and needs were at the very bottom.

He was strong enough not to go fight. It took a hell of a lot out of him, though. So much of his self-worth was still tied up in all that. It didn’t matter that there were plenty of capable people out there to do what needed to be done. Those people were his friends and he felt guilty not being there to help them. 

That was to say nothing of the public. Bucky could have  _ murdered _ the news pundit who demanded  _ where’s Commander Rogers _ ? Thankfully, he didn’t have to. Captain America served heaping plate of  _ shut the fuck up _ in post-action interviews, stating that Commander Rogers was retired after nearly a century of service and sacrifice and did not deserve to have his right to enjoy his life questioned. Nobody had much to say about it after that.

_ He’s right, you know _ , Bucky said at the time.

_ Sam is always right _ , Steve replied.

He likes Sam. He’s only met him once, and Sam was lukewarm toward him at best, but it was pretty obvious that it came from a place of love for Steve. He understands that only too well.

The important thing is that Steve always drifts back to him, and he stays a little longer each time. Eventually, he’s going to wash up on Bucky’s shore and stay. He’s more sure of that than ever, especially since their 6 month anniversary gift to one another was an exchange of house keys.

It’s actually been kind of nice to take their time, if he’s honest. Post-resurrection dating had a strange sense of urgency about it, and that led to Bucky leaping into a few relationships that burnt out as fast as they started. It was a lot to process in addition to trying to get his life back. He hadn’t dated anyone in well over a year when Steve moved in. And if it takes a year or five to get Steve used to the idea of the simple life with his best guy, that’s all right.

There’s a sticky note on Bucky’s bedside table.

_ Happy birthday, handsome _ .  _ There’s a gift for you on the porch _ .

He is only slightly less excited than a kid on Christmas morning. It’s wrapped in brown paper that has Handle With Care printed on it. He brings it into the house and carefully eases the paper away.

His mouth falls open. He thought it might be art, and it is. It’s a Steven Grant Rogers original.

It’s a watercolor of Bucky in his cutoff overalls. One strap is slouched down over his shoulder; he’s holding the hedge trimmer in the other hand. He’s in a stance that’s pure, unadulterated attitude, and he’s surrounded by flowering meadow and tall cypress trees shaped like dicks. He’s learned a lot more about art and art history since he met Steve, and he can see the intent in the composition; he’s a god in his temple.

It is the most amazing thing he’s ever seen. And his heart feels like it is about to  _ explode _ .

  
  


He knew Bucky would like the painting. He just didn’t anticipate how much.

He’s in the greenhouse fussing with his seedlings when Bucky barges in, still in pajamas, looking like he’s about to cry. Panic flares in Steve’s mind -  _ crying bad! _ \- but it eases when Bucky lurches forward to full-body hug him so tight his ribs creak.

Bucky’s lip wobbles when he pulls back.

“I,” he says, index finger up, “have been trying not to say this so you wouldn’t feel pressured. But this is the last straw, mister.” He jabs his finger into Steve’s chest, right between his pecs. “I love you. And there is not a goddamn thing you can do about it.”

A startled laugh punches out of Steve’s lungs. Bucky is  _ ridiculous _ . “Why on Earth would I want to do anything about it except say it back?” 

“To say it back you actually have to  _ say it back _ , Steve,” he responds tartly, though he can’t disguise the naked hope in his eyes.

“Must I? Fine. Bucky Barnes, I love you.” He drops a kiss on Bucky’s lips. A few months ago this might have scared him, but not anymore. The safer course isn’t necessarily the better one. He’s always known that.

Bucky breathes like he is greatly put upon, and then he drops down to his knees. He’s working Steve’s pants open before Steve can really process what’s happening. His body has no such delay. He’s hard and aching in the space of a few breaths, and his knees really do feel weak when Bucky strokes him a few times and lays a wet kiss on the underside of his shaft. He’s so gone for Bucky, it’s crazy.

“This gonna happen every time I say I love you?” he breathes.

“Guess we’ll find out, sweetheart.”

  
  
  


He’s absolutely  _ floating _ when it’s done, the taste of Steve on his lips, his own body buzzing with exhilarated arousal. He just wants to -- he wants to sit on Steve’s face and stay there the rest of the day. And Steve would let him.

He stands up and  _ whoa. _ He’s dizzy, television static whiting out his vision for a moment, and he feels Steve’s strong hands steadying him.

“You okay?” he asks. Bucky can hear a little breathlessness in his voice.

“I think so.” His vision clears and there’s Steve, gorgeous and rosy-cheeked. And very sweaty, he belatedly notices. “Are you?”

“I’m fine. But it’s about a thousand degrees in here, Buck.”

That’s right. They’re in the greenhouse. Whoops. 

“Let’s get you some water,” Steve chuckles, and helps him into the house.

  
  
  


Steve gets him some ice water and a cold washcloth. In about ten minutes, he feels a lot better. Of course, in those ten minutes his sex buzz fades, which is mildly disappionting, but hey...it’s only 9:30 am. There’s time.

“Oh,” Steve says, patting at his neck with a washcloth of his own. “I have one more present for you. Want to see it?”

Bucky perks up. More presents? Steve is seriously spoiling the fuck out of him. What the heck is he gonna do on the 4th of July? He can already picture Steve saying  _ you don’t have to get me anything, Bucky, you’re the best present I could ask for.  _ Oof.

“Yeah, I wanna see it,” he says, Capital F Feelings returning to make his chest feel like a compartment full of cute fluffy bees.

Steve takes his hand and leads him to the bedroom. Bucky isn’t sure what to expect, but he knows it when he sees it. Steve got a new bed.

One of their first fights had been about his bed. He’d moved into this house - this  _ life _ \- with a single XL twin bed. He’d just  _ assumed _ he was going to be alone. Sharing a life and a bed had not even been on his radar. 

It was sad as fuck, and as things progressed,  _ annoying _ as fuck. He couldn’t sleep over his own boyfriend’s house. It didn’t matter that his king bed was right next door. That wasn’t the point. Steve didn’t get it, though. He didn’t understand that that bed was a physical manifestation of a mental roadblock.

“Before you yell at me,” Steve says, “it’s a queen. The king is just...so  _ big _ .”

Bucky smiles. Steve always ends up glued to his side in the king bed, anyway.

“It’s perfect.”

He tugs Steve toward the bed, sinks down onto the cool, fresh sheets, and doesn’t get up for another two hours.

  
  
  


The next morning - Monday, ugh - Bucky leaves Steve dozing in the new bed to tiptoe back to his house. The sun is just coming up, and the neighborhood is quiet. He freezes as he nears the house. The deer are across the street, staring at him, ears pricked up. Something tells him that if he turns to look at his arbor vitae, it will be in the shape of a penis again.

He laughs to himself. If not for that, none of this might have happened.

“Thanks for the assist,” he says to the deer, and goes inside to get ready for work.


End file.
